


Only Words

by helens78



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-04
Updated: 2003-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A night of loving and teasing between the Steward and his King.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Words

Boromir wonders if it should bother him, hearing Aragorn cry out in Elvish when the two of them are alone. The words themselves do not set him ill at ease; the Sindarin phrases are beautiful, more beautiful than any sounds Boromir can offer at similar times. But he wonders where Aragorn's mind is when these words come from him.

Boromir does not begrudge Aragorn the love of his elf-maiden, any more than Aragorn would criticize him for taking comfort from the men he has fought with over years of struggle in Gondor. Their pasts are only that -- past -- and they both understand the need to accept what has come before. Every day they've lived has shaped them into the men they are now. Were their pasts to disappear, it is unlikely they would be here now. It's possible they never would have met.

Aragorn's mouth is demanding tonight, passionate in ways Boromir did not realize the ranger knew. It is all Boromir can do to keep from crying out when lips and tongue make their way down his body. He digs his fingers into the earth, clawing trails that mark the extent to which Aragorn's mouth affects him. All this, and Aragorn has barely tasted him; it is only the mark of warm lips over Boromir's chest, over the planes of his stomach, his left hip--

" _Aragorn,_ " Boromir gasps, twisting underneath his lover. "Aragorn, please, do not tease me further, I cannot bear it--"

"You can," Aragorn whispers, "and hush now, my own, or you will wake everyone." His eyes sparkle, and Boromir bites down on his lower lip to keep from crying out. Aragorn lowers his head again, and Boromir is certain that his plea has just convinced Aragorn to keep the tease going until Boromir can't stand it any longer. Boromir feels very near that point now, with Aragorn's tongue stealing down the crease where thigh joins torso, licking down a few bare inches before coming back up toward his hip. Again, the path is forged and then doubled back upon itself, and Boromir's eyes squeeze shut tight when it seems Aragorn cannot possibly turn back again.

Still, he does; Boromir makes fists in the earth, feeling the roots of grass tear under his hands. "You will finish me," Boromir whispers, breath hissing out of him desperately. "Please, taste me."

"I _am_ tasting you," Aragorn murmurs. Boromir can feel the warmth of his breath against the inside of his thigh, and it makes him shiver hard and jerk up, hoping the lurch of his erection toward Aragorn's mouth will convince Aragorn to show mercy. Instead, it only makes Aragorn chuckle. "You know nothing of patience," he teases. "Turn over."

"No," Boromir moans, "no, _please_." He releases his hands' death grip on the earth, and reaches up to tangle fingers into Aragorn's hair. Pushed past endurance, he tightens his grip enough to guide Aragorn's mouth where he wants it. Aragorn leaves an obliging but nearly-chaste kiss on Boromir's heavy, dripping erection, and then twists and turns his head until Boromir's hands come free.

"Had anyone done this for you before me?" Aragorn asks quietly. "You have come to love it so much, and at first I feared you were going to threaten my life for even suggesting it."

"Aragorn, I am begging you, can we not talk later?" Boromir is beginning to think all this has been a cruel dream. To be so close and still so far away from what he truly desires -- he knew many dreams of this sort before the ranger laid a hand on the side of his neck and whispered an invitation in his ear.

But in none of those dreams did Aragorn stop in the midst of their loving to ask questions of him. No, more likely Aragorn would simply vanish, or his mouth would be just beginning its first lick up Boromir's sensitive skin when a small elbow would plant itself in Boromir's side, or a small foot might 'accidentally' kick him in the shin, rudely shoving him into the waking world. This, then, is no dream, and Aragorn is singleminded enough that there will be no more soft licking, not even to tease, until he has his answer.

Defeated, Boromir half-sits, looking down into the blue of Aragorn's eyes. Even in the dim starlight, he can see how blue Aragorn's eyes are. Perhaps not so blue as the Ringbearer's, perhaps not the blue of the sky, but a blue that makes Boromir think of home -- family -- peace. "All right," Boromir whispers. "I am listening, love. What were you asking of me?"

"I was asking if I am the first to be graced with the gift of tasting you," Aragorn smiles up at him. "You were scandalized when I first offered."

Boromir goes red, skin turning up flushed in mottled patches over his chest. "You would leave me none of my thoughts, would you?" he asks. "Some things are _private_ , Aragorn."

"Even among friends?" Aragorn's eyes remain focused on Boromir's as he lowers his mouth to the crease of Boromir's thigh again. "Even among lovers?" he whispers, and plants a gentle kiss there.

Boromir lets his eyes close, and he tilts his head back, enjoying even the ghost of a touch traveling from Aragorn's lips to his skin. In truth, he is stalling for time, hoping to think of the right answer before Aragorn can pull answers from him unbidden. He has learned much about Aragorn in the weeks they've traveled together; he knows the blood of Númenor has given Aragorn more years than it would seem from outward appearances. It is important to Boromir not to be thought foolish or inexperienced by such elder eyes.

"You ask so much of me," Boromir whispers at last.

"You give me so much," Aragorn returns. "I would like to think I've managed to touch on similar ground for you. There are things you've given me that I would not have imagined possible before you."

"Truly?" Boromir's head comes up again, and his expression is unguarded. Aragorn smiles. Boromir does not realize how closely Aragorn's expression mirrors his own; he would not recognize wonder and open pleasure on his own face if he were to see it reflected in the water, not after these last few months. "What have I given you?" Boromir asks.

"You are trying to distract me," Aragorn says, his lips drawing into a lovely false pout.

Boromir's grin widens, and he reaches down for Aragorn again, this time grasping his shoulders. "Am I succeeding?" he asks. "Come and lie with me while we talk."

"I think you mean lie _on_ you," Aragorn harrumphs, but he climbs up and settles on top of Boromir all the same. He shifts his weight until Boromir cradles him in open arms and legs, then sighs. "Perhaps you're right," he murmurs. "This _is_ better."

"And now we are equally distracted," Boromir grins. "That being so, could we not put our mouths to better use than talking?"

"As soon as you offer me my answer," Aragorn says. He rests his fingertips against Boromir's lips, the pads of his middle and fourth fingers callus-roughened against Boromir's mouth. Boromir parts his lips to let Aragorn's fingers in, but Aragorn draws them away, wrinkling his nose. "You may taste me as you will, when you've given me my answer."

It's such a small question, and now the only reason Boromir does not want to give away the answer is because he's been hiding it for so long. There is nothing shameful in answering _yes, you were the first to love me in that way_ , nothing at all, but Boromir is stubborn, and would prefer to win this verbal spar. He tries to press himself up, lips seeking any part of Aragorn he can reach, and still Aragorn evades him; twisting and writhing on top of Boromir's body, Aragorn keeps from letting any patch of skin come within range of Boromir's questing mouth.

The twisting and writhing has other effects as well, and before long both men are short of breath. Aragorn slides fingers into Boromir's hair, caressing him with softness and kindness and patience, and Boromir breathes out, "Yes."

"Is that my answer?" Aragorn asks.

"It is that," Boromir murmurs. "It's a small thing to have kept hidden. Although I think I enjoy your interrogation techniques. Perhaps I should be more close-lipped about small matters, if this is to be the result--"

Aragorn quickly disavows him of any notion of being _close-lipped_ ; he fastens his mouth to Boromir's and slides his tongue inside, hungry and eager to share this particular intimate caress with his companion. Boromir tightens his arms around Aragorn's shoulders, letting his small gasps and moans escape into Aragorn's mouth. His tongue meets Aragorn's, and there is nothing shy or reticent about his kiss this time. Aragorn may be leading, but Boromir is meeting him step for step.

"I wish you would always kiss me like that," Aragorn whispers. It takes some effort to draw away, even far enough to speak; he nuzzles against Boromir, breath mingling with his as his lashes fall softly over his cheeks. "I like knowing how much you want me."

"I have never made a secret of it," Boromir whispers in return.

"No?" Aragorn asks, but he has difficulty keeping to his questions with Boromir's mouth so near. The warmth of his breath is intoxicating, and Aragorn moans quietly as he licks a path across Boromir's lips. An answering moan comes from Boromir's lips, and soon the two of them are intertwined again, tongues dancing and exploring one another's taste. Boromir's hands glide down Aragorn's back, and Aragorn shudders above him. It's partly a shudder from passion and interest, but Boromir also feels the slight roughness of gooseflesh under his hand. He presses up with his hips, twists at the shoulders, and manages to turn them so Aragorn lies beneath him, Boromir cradling his lover's face in his hands.

"Are you warmer now?" Boromir teases.

"Much. I think I shall take you with me whenever I travel from now on." Aragorn closes his eyes and wriggles contentedly underneath Boromir. "You make a most effective blanket."

"Easy for you to say now," Boromir grins. "I am the sort of blanket that disappears halfway through the night to relieve itself."

"Oh. Well." Aragorn frowns a bit. "That might not be so good."

"But what other blanket would take to hands and knees and plead with you to claim it?" The absurdity of what he's saying suddenly strikes Boromir full in the face, and he shakes his head, laughing. "Listen to what you have me babbling about. I cannot remember a time when I have been so willing to joke with someone." Boromir presses a kiss to Aragorn's forehead. "I am glad to have met you, ranger."

This time it's Aragorn's turn to wrap Boromir up in arms and legs and hold him close. His eyes close, and he lets out a slow, steady breath against Boromir's neck. "There are times I feel burdened by having so many names," he murmurs. "Not when I hear them from you."

"You will have to teach me the rest of them someday," Boromir teases. "Do you think we can get by on the ones I know now, though, at least until the end of the night?"

"Certainly," Aragorn agrees. "I would like to think your mouth will be too occupied for you to call me by _any_ of my names for parts of this night..."

"Is that a hint or an order from the man who would be my King?" Boromir asks.

Aragorn pauses, sweeping Boromir's hair back from his face to take a closer look at him. There's nothing about Boromir's expression that suggests he's at all put out by what Aragorn has just said. It was a sore spot between them for a few days, more because of the way Aragorn had kept his identity hidden than because of the identity itself, and the damage was repaired quickly. No malice hides in Boromir's words now, and Aragorn meets the teasing at its face. "Can a King order his subjects to do such things?" he asks. "Your mouth is talented indeed; it might be worth taking the crown if it would mean I could have you at my order whenever it pleased me."

"You can have me at your order whenever it pleases you, King or not," Boromir says. And just like that, the teasing between them is gone, replaced with something that takes Aragorn's breath away.

"Taste me," Aragorn breathes, and Boromir begins a slow slide down Aragorn's body, leaving the trail of his lips on Aragorn's skin. Aragorn does not even know what he's saying as Boromir settles himself between his legs, tongue making only a few attempts at teasing before he draws his lips up the length of Aragorn's erection and begins sucking lightly at the skin just under the head.

Whatever he says, though, it draws Boromir's attention. He pulls his lips away, ignoring Aragorn's immediate sound of disappointment. "What are those words you're giving me?" Boromir asks.

"I don't -- I'm not--" Aragorn tilts his head back and looks up at the stars, trying to remember. " _My love, my own, what you do to me..._ " he answers. He looks at Boromir again, smiling a bit; were he one to blush, his skin would be glowing. "I believe that's it."

"Where are you when you're speaking Elvish to me?" Boromir asks.

"Now _you're_ the one talking in moments that could be better occupied elsewise." Aragorn lifts his hips encouragingly. "By order of the not-King, I..."

"Tell me," Boromir urges. He puts a hand on Aragorn's thigh. "Are you here with me, even when the language that crosses your lips is not the one I share with you?"

" _Oh._ " Aragorn does sit up, then, far enough to cradle Boromir's head in his hands. "I am always with you," he murmurs. "I am sorry if I've made you feel otherwise."

Boromir ducks his head again, capturing the tip of Aragorn's erection and beginning to move his mouth down. Aragorn clutches at Boromir's head, then lets out a long, nearly-exhausted breath as Boromir sinks down on him. "Please," he whispers, this time in words Boromir can understand.

Boromir's mouth is indeed too busy to speak more; when he comes up for air, his tongue slides into the foreskin and toys lightly with the head of Aragorn's cock. He can't help a small chuckle when Aragorn gasps and sinks to the ground; he slides down again, then, taking as much of Aragorn's cock into his mouth as he can hold. His hand steadies the base of it while he makes long, gentle strokes up the shaft, head moving up and down in elegantly obscene motions. Aragorn might indeed have had decades to practice this before showing Boromir what could be done with a warm, eager mouth, but Boromir has made up for lost time.

Aragorn's fingers clutch softly in Boromir's hair while Boromir makes love to him, and when the hitching of his breath coupled with the soft movements of his hips tells Boromir that Aragorn's climax is near, Boromir pulls his mouth away. This time Aragorn's disappointed noises are much more serious, and he actually tugs at Boromir's hair, hoping to reclaim the warmth of his mouth. Aragorn is generally not inclined to such things, and it makes Boromir grin. He places a kiss on the inside of Aragorn's thigh.

"I want you to take me, Aragorn," he whispers. "I want to feel the echo of our loving in the morning when we're making our way across the fields."

Aragorn grunts softly and sits up. He presses a quick kiss to Boromir's mouth and nods enthusiastically. "Will you go to all fours for me?" he asks.

Boromir does not need to answer in words; his body takes the position, and Aragorn rummages through his discarded clothes for the small bottle of oil that should be used for soothing tired muscles. Its secondary use here has done much more to soothe the two of them, he thinks with a grin, and he slides fingers into Boromir, trying not to gasp at the way Boromir tightens around him. "You will drive me mad," he murmurs.

"You are mad already," Boromir whispers. "We all are."

Aragorn does not want to think about how true Boromir's words are. The promise of Boromir's heat around his cock is too much to resist, and he begins fitting himself inside, one inch at a time as Boromir arches back against him. When his hips come to rest against the curve of Boromir's backside, he lets out a long breath. "You are so beautiful," he whispers.

"I am glad you find me so," Boromir breathes. He arches lightly under Aragorn's hands and presses back hard. "You do not need to be gentle with me," he murmurs. "I want to _feel_ this, Strider."

Aragorn's face splits into a grin as he hears _that_ name on Boromir's lips. Memory surges up in him, memory of torn clothing and split lips and shouting followed by silence followed by growled, panting whispers. He remembers an ache he felt for three days while Boromir tried to look sullen and instead looked only smug to Aragorn's knowing eyes. "You do not have to tell me twice," Aragorn growls, and leans forward to plant a forearm across Boromir's shoulders, holding him in place while he goes in hard, each thrust drawing groans from both of them. The sharp sound of flesh on flesh fills the air around them, and before long neither man can think to keep their noises soft for the benefit of their travel companions.

One of Aragorn's hands comes up to grip Boromir's hip; the arm that was resting on Boromir's shoulders slides down so his hand can cover Boromir's mouth. Boromir closes his eyes and lets Aragorn's fingers blunt the sound as he comes, unable to keep himself from crying out.

Aragorn waits, letting Boromir finish, listening to the soft, muffled cries that Boromir lets out with the last of his release. Boromir nuzzles against Aragorn's hand, breath coming out damp against Aragorn's palm. When the nuzzling ends and Boromir nods, Aragorn draws his hand back, resting it on Boromir's shoulder.

Boromir is without words for quite some time after he reaches his climax; Aragorn keeps his hand on Boromir's shoulder and squeezes gently before he begins moving again. Boromir gasps, mouth falling open, and Aragorn can feel Boromir tightening around him for an instant as the strokes begin again. He pauses as he slides in to the root again, and leans down to kiss Boromir's back. "Can I move?" he whispers. "Will I hurt you?"

Boromir had begun to nod at first, and now shakes his head; he lets out a slightly frustrated noise, then laughs. "Too many questions?" Aragorn asks. Boromir nods with vehemence, and Aragorn laughs, too, drawing both hands down Boromir's sides until they're resting in the inner curves of his hips. "Then I will spare you my overeager tongue," he purrs, "and will give you _other_ parts of me to think on."

The movements are slower now, not so desperate. Aragorn closes his eyes; he could feel Boromir's warmth surrounding him for the rest of his life, he thinks, and there are times he would try to do just that if only the sun would, just once, fail to rise to its place in the dawn sky. He is whispering in Elvish again, soft words and endearments, _my love, I would be yours, always, please, so much..._

"I love you," Boromir murmurs. Aragorn stills his motions and waits for more; when Boromir finds words, there are usually more than three of them. Nothing more comes, though, and when Aragorn begins to move again, he is almost tentative. He does not want to silence Boromir; given the choice between the pleasure of having Boromir's body this way and hearing those three words again, he does not know if he could make a decision at all.

One of Boromir's hands comes back to cover Aragorn's. "I meant it," he whispers. "I love you."

"You offer me too much for one night," Aragorn whispers back. His hands tighten. "I wish I could watch those words forming on your lips while I take you..."

Boromir pulls forward, and Aragorn can't help the soft grunt that comes from the center of his throat when he loses Boromir's heat. Boromir turns around, then, and pushes Aragorn back so he's seated. Boromir comes up and straddles Aragorn's hips, and Aragorn braces himself with arms straight out behind his back. The pace is all Boromir's, now, and he steadies Aragorn's cock with a hand before sinking down on it. Aragorn tilts his head back and moans, and he feels Boromir's hands slide into his hair as the movements begin again, soft steady ones that have Aragorn mewling, nuzzling against Boromir's face and crying out softly against his skin.

"Look at me," Boromir whispers. "Can you look at me now?"

Aragorn blinks his eyes open with great effort and nods, gazing into eyes that seem like endless, fathomless pools of green. It is like being caught by a river's current on a stormy day, and Aragorn frees one hand to place his fingers over Boromir's lips.

Boromir catches his hand and moves it away. "I love you," he whispers. "You do not have to be afraid of that."

Aragorn shakes his head, unable to explain _what_ it is that scares him so badly about this confession, offered openly, eyes meeting eyes. "Please," he whispers.

"Let me," Boromir whispers, and gasps as he makes another glide up the length of Aragorn's cock, "let me love you, please, Aragorn..."

Aragorn cries out, and leans forward, wrapping both arms around Boromir's waist to hold him still. His breath comes out in ragged whispers as he comes, body jerking underneath Boromir, arms tightening hard. His breath feels torn from his chest, and he buries his face against Boromir's shoulder, panting.

Boromir's fingers slide through his hair, soft, patient caresses. "It's all right," he murmurs.

Aragorn shakes his head. He can feel dampness against Boromir's shoulder, and knows it's his fault. He presses a soft kiss there, as if the kiss can make up for the tears he shed and the way he tried to hold Boromir's words back. "Please," he whispers.

"Did you change your mind?" Boromir asks. There is no censure in his voice, only patience, kindness, care. "It is one thing to ask for such words in the heat of passion. To realize they're meant..."

"I did _not_ change my mind," Aragorn whispers fiercely. He tightens his grasp on Boromir. "And even if I had... these are not words we can take back."

"They are words we could outgrow, given time." Boromir lets out a long, silent breath, and it tears at Aragorn's heart to hear it. "You have not given them back," he says. The tone in his voice is so gentle it could almost be meant to tease, were it not for the exhale that preceded his words. Aragorn knows full well what a breath like that means. It is hope and love and strength, gathered together, and he pulls back so he can look into Boromir's eyes and meet that look full-on.

"I love you," he says. "I do not want to outgrow it."

Boromir holds his breath, and he does so for long enough that Aragorn's eyes grow concerned. Aragorn slaps Boromir hard on the back, making Boromir choke and cough. He glares at Aragorn, but can't keep the look up for long. "A perfectly good moment ruined," he huffs. "I hope you're satisfied."

"I am very satisfied," Aragorn purrs, shifting his hips up against Boromir's. Boromir manages a smile in return. Aragorn puts his hands on Boromir's hips and sighs lightly. "And I would like to think there will be many such moments to ruin... or not, as we prefer."

"Perhaps there is something to be said for not taking such a moment too seriously," Boromir murmurs. He cups Aragorn's cheek in his hand. "I love you, my ranger. My not-King."

Aragorn chuckles. "And I love you, my entirely too heavy Steward. Off."

Boromir lifts himself off Aragorn and stretches out on the pallet, tugging his cloak over himself. "For that, I think you should be the one to explain all the noise," he murmurs.

"I do not think any in our company requires my explanations," Aragorn murmurs, sliding under Boromir's cloak and twining himself around his lover. "But if they ask, I will be certain to tell them it was all your fault."

Boromir opens his mouth to argue, but only manages a yawn. He nods against Aragorn's shoulder, grateful for the opportunity to take some rest together, no matter how short it might be.


End file.
